Good Old-Fashioned Villian
by WeeTubaGirl
Summary: It has been two months since Moriarty hacked into London. Sherlock, troubled and frustrated by the villain's sudden reappearance is chasing dead ends - until he finds a familiar face waiting for him in 221B. But everything is not as it seems, and Moriarty turns out to be far more powerful than ever imagined...Cover by nupao, deviantart, "Apples of Discord"
1. Chapter 1

_"Did you miss me?"_

Yes. How could he not? The devil to his angel, the sweet to his sour.

_"Did you miss me?"_

Yes. How could he not? Two years of boredom, of scurrying around that massive web, ruining and saving lives. Two years gone without John. Two years with only the comforting presence of drugs and the bitter sting of his memories to keep him going. He missed him. He missed the game and the thrill of the chase. Even now, back on scent, he missed him.

_"Did you miss me?"_

Yes. So where was he? Where was he hiding? What did he want?

Sherlock knotted his hands through his hair, his eyes shut and his back arched. He was sitting in a little room in an abandoned office, far away from the thumping pulse of the breathing city. He needed silence. He needed peace. He couldn't get that in 221B, not with the roaring traffic and the humming fridge and the ticking clock. He was alone here. Completely alone.

Opening his eyes, he flexed his fingers, watching the muscles in his lower arm ripple. Pinpricks from needles littered the skin around his elbow; beside him was an empty syringe, its pointed silver tip stained red with his blood. He closed his eyes again. The heroin focussed him like a laser, allowing him to zoom in on the world, on his thoughts. His mind was hot and red and aimed; a sniper. All he needed was that little itch in his finger, that urge to pull the trigger and end it all, and then it would be over. The clues would slot into place and the game could begin.

_"Did you miss me?"_

It had been two months since that message had popped up on screens across London, and since then, there had been nothing. No murders, no movement. There were clues of course, ones Sherlock latched onto quickly and easily – phonecalls made at night in shadowy alleyways, whispered conversations, shattered glass and splintered doors. The current rumour was that Moriarty was trying to break into MI5, but Sherlock didn't believe a word of it. What would Moriarty want with national security? He could destroy Britain with a flick of his wrist, a nod of his head. He still had people. Despite his efforts over the past two years, Sherlock hadn't brought down all of Moriarty's spider friends, and besides, he could recruit more. He had proved…resourceful in the past.

He had, of course, considered the possibility that it wasn't Moriarty who had hacked into London. Sherlock had seen him die – gun in mouth, blood splattering, dull thud of head on the ground – and it was hard to fool the man who sees everything. But even that hadn't worked. Everyone he investigated came up clean. Moran, Moriarty's right hand man, was nowhere to be found. Known traitors and informants had alibis and shaking hands; those that hadn't ran at the sight of their master's face lived in fear of that soothing Irish voice and the crack of his gun. He had even investigated Tom, Molly's estranged boyfriend, but he too was clean, having settled in Dover to continue his beekeeping business.

Nothing fit. Nothing worked. Clues, scattered, unconnected. Broken threads. He had to piece them together, but how? A hundred tiny details had to join to the four massive words that haunted him:

_"Did you miss me?"_

Yes. Oh God, yes.

Sighing, Sherlock opened his eyes again and pushed himself up, wobbling as the world tilted and the floor aligned itself. Things zoomed in and out of focus for a moment. It had been 3 hours since he had injected, and the drug was wearing off. The laser was dimming; the sniper was dismantling his gun. And had he gotten anywhere? No. Annoyance jabbed at him like a knife and, as he ran his hands through his hair and walked towards the door, he silently cursed his stupidity. Because that was all it was – stupidity, ordinary, human stupidity. He had expected Gavin and Anderson and even John to be stumped, to be lost, but he…he was the one they all relied on. He was a compass, a code-breaker, a dragon-slayer. And he couldn't stand the sting of failure.

The sun glared at him as he strode out of the building, blinking in its golden rays. Trees swayed in the distance; clouds rolled in from the East; there was a quiet murmur of voices coming from the other end of the street. Sherlock ignored everything and kept walking. He needed tea, and a fresh shirt, and his violin. Perhaps that would help. Turning a corner, he thrust his hands in his pockets and walked, only vaguely aware of people crossing the road to avoid him. He was still in a shirt and tie, a waistcoat pinching in his stomach and a pair of tailored trousers nipping at his ankles, but the shirt was untucked; and the tie was undone; and the waistcoat was stained with drops of blood and splashes of dust; and the trousers were shredded at the bottom and covered in dirt. A women pulled her child away as he marched past them – 34, married, living in South London with a cat...and a budgie, and working in a dead-end job as a secretary for a leering boss. He saw it all on her clothes and in the creases round her eyes. Her son looked at him with an open-mouthed gape.

"Mummy…mummy, that's, that's the man from…from the papers…"

The mother simply shook her head and yanked her son away. Sherlock watched them go before walking again. Taxi. He needed a taxi. He had money…maybe. Did he? Did he even have his wallet with him? Or his phone? Everything before the needle was a vague and hazy blur of rushing and running and a myriad of confusing thoughts. He felt his back pocket. Nothing there. His waistcoat pocket. Yes, a £10 note, just enough to take him to the edge of Baker Street.

He walked for a while, eyes peeled for the familiar black cars (_he supposed he must be mad to keep taking taxis after that case, the first one with John - the first one with him, that final scream of a dying man – Moriarty) _He flagged one down, and off he went, hands knotted, brow furrowed, through the breathing streets of London.


	2. Chapter 2

"Oh, Sherlock, what happened?"

"Nothing, Mrs Hudson." Sherlock slammed the door behind him and made for the stairs. Mrs Hudson blocked his path, a matronly, worried look on her kind face. He frowned at her. "If you wouldn't mind."

A pained look passed over Mrs Hudson's face; Sherlock gritted his teeth. He loved the old woman, her smile, her helpfulness, her remarkably good tea, but there was a time and a place for her surrogate love, and this was neither. "Mrs Hudson, I just spent 3 hours sitting in a darkened room, my head is pounding and the cabbie said my smell was offending him so I had to walk from Piccadilly Circus. Now, please, for the love of God, let me through!"

Mrs Hudson let out a squeak and stepped to the side, letting Sherlock pass through the narrow gap on the stairs. "Thank you," he said sarcastically, grasping the bannister and glaring at the kind old woman.

"Oh, Sherlock, before you go – there's a man upstairs. Says he needs to speak to you quite urgently. I told him you weren't in but he refused to leave."

Sherlock waved a hand behind him and started walking up the stairs, still gritting his teeth and growling in the back of his throat. "He can wait until I have a shower."

"But he's already been here three hours-

"So surely he wouldn't mind waiting a little more!" Sherlock slammed the door to the flat behind him, anger pulsing through his veins. Offensive stupidity should be banned – Mrs Hudson should be banned, the cabbie should be banned, that mother should be banned, Molly and Mary and John and Graham and Anderson and Sally should be banned, all banned and locked away, so it was only him on this world. The fantasy was appealing for a moment, but then he remembered the smart ones, Mycroft and Moriarty and his mother, still alive and bickering. The thought made him angrier still, and he whacked his hands against the door, ignoring the painful twitch in the crook of his elbow. Stupid, stupid, all stupid, every single one! Even he was stupid, stupid STUPID! The only smart one left was him, the _"Did you miss me?"_ man, the spider and the fear and the Napoleon of Crime. A world without stupidity and he would rule...he would finally wear a crown.

"Ahem."

Sherlock growled under his breath and whipped round, his hands curled into tight fists and the taste in his mouth as sour as curdled milk. The client, yes, the client was always right, apparently, but not this, not this fool, this idiot, this man who stormed into his home and demanded to see him. Offensive stupidity; oh, it burned, it burned like poker on his skin (_Russia, yes, Russia, with Mycroft watching and smiling as his baby brother howled in pain, red hot pokers and whips and knives and thumbscrews and sometimes, he _enjoyed _the pain)._

Sherlock opened his mouth to shout, but the words died in his throat. The man looked up from the chair, hand curled round a china teacup, and said, softly, with calming Irish lilt; "Did you miss me?"

Sherlock stared, tried to think of something, anything, to say. Nothing. Not even any thoughts. Just…silence. For the first time ever, his head was quiet.

Moriarty shot him a smile and sipped from the teacup, before putting it down on the table. He was sitting in Sherlock's chair, legs held neatly together, hands on his lap. His gleaming eyes latched onto Sherlock's. "Sorry. Hope you don't mind. The door was open, and I haven't had a good cup of tea in ages." He paused – silence. "I've been watching you, you know. Looking for me. I thought you would have got it by now, but that brain of yours…so slow. So painfully…human. So I decided to pop in for a visit. A quick 'hello'." Pause – silence. Moriarty creased his brow. "Say something. Anything. I'm sure you have questions, Sherlock."

Sherlock licked his lips and tried to remember how to speak, how to be witty and smart. He felt numb. Dead.

"How did you do it?"

Moriarty shrugged. "How did you? You tried to trick the Trickster, Sherlock; surely you realised you'd get tricked right back." He paused and a grin spread over his face like an oil slick. "Not. Dead."

"But…but I watched you." Sherlock furrowed his brow and took a small step forward, raising his chin and straightening his back. Tall, strong, powerful – the fighter and the winner. He wouldn't let this quiver inside of him, like wavering note of a violin, come through. Not now. Not when he was back. Thoughts were beginning to wander into his brain again, slowly, gingerly, as though scared of another shock. Moriarty, in his living room, sitting the same way he did two years ago. That slick smile, that misleading tap.

Moriarty rolled his eyes. "Oh God, Sherlock, don't be so boring. Thousands of people watched you die, and yet, here we are. Walking, talking. Thinking." He stood up and smoothed down his suit before meandering around the room, pausing here and there to investigate books and tie-pins, apples and keys. One finger plucked delicately at a violin string. "How's John, may I ask?"

"John is…fine."

"Married to Miss Morstan, yes? I was at the wedding. Lovely affair. All that…yellow. And you, you were just brilliant. Slow, ordinary, sentimental, but brilliant. Do love a wedding, Sherlock. Can't wait to come to yours."

"What do you want?"

"What do I want? I just want a chat. A little conversation. I saw you got rid of Magnussen - very rash of you, Sherlock, very rash. You're slipping. Slipping, falling, twirling…" He spiralled his hand through the air, calling to mind images of hummingbirds and songbirds, floating, flying. No, not birds. Bats. "You need help. And you won't find it at the bottom of a needle."

Sherlock covered the crook of his elbow with his hand, and glanced up, his steely eyes locking onto Moriarty's. His mind was buzzing again. "I'll repeat," he said, the edge in voice sharp as a rapier's cut. "What do you want? A man of your calibre does not just turn up at my door for a chat. You either want to kill me, which I doubt, or you want to intimidate me, which I also doubt, because we both learned on that rooftop that I can't be intimidated easily; not by you, not by anyone. That leaves only one option. You want me for something – you're here to recruit me."

"Recruit you? Recruit you! Why would I want to recruit you, Sherlock? I have a crown, I have a key, I have paid back the fall that I owed. Is it so hard to believe that I am simply here to chat?"

"Yes."

The smile slid of Moriarty's face and he turned away, back to Sherlock, facing the desk and the wall. "You're slow and getting slower, but I must concede, you aren't a fool. Look at me, truly look at me, and if you are the God you think you are, tell me why I'm here. The clues are all there, Sherlock – I made sure all of them were in plain sight. Now, find them. FIND THEM!"

Sherlock stared, mind beginning to race, eyes beginning to flit across the room. Something wasn't right. Something was off; a broken thread, a missing piece. But what? Moriarty doesn't just appear. He plans, he waits, he weaves his web. Something in this was a trap – and despite what he said, despite the assurances to the contrary, Sherlock knew that this was a recruitment mission. It was clear in his eyes, that silent but deep need inside him. What did Moriarty need with him? He was an enemy; ordinary, plain in Moriarty's eyes, not an equal but a ruling duke to his mighty king. Moriarty wanted him for something, but for what? And why? And what was this feeling, creeping up from the pit of his stomach, worming into his brain and burrowing through his mind that told him – screamed at him– that something was wrong? What?!

Think. Moriarty was here when he got in, tea made, ready and waiting. Was there hidden meaning in the mug, in the words he used? No, Sherlock didn't think so. Further back! Rewind, back, back, back. Mrs Hudson said there was a man upstairs…not Moriarty, but a man, a client. So, what, Moriarty had disguised himself? No. No makeup, no mask, no props. So why didn't Mrs Hudson recognise him? His face had been over the paper for weeks, months, years, grinning, staring with a madman intensity that made Sherlock's skin crawl. She knew who he was. So why…?

And there was something else. Something about that day…about the Richenbach Fall, as the papers seemed keen to call it. His death. A gun in the mouth, a bullet through the brain. Sherlock looked up; Moriarty was poking the horns of the bison on the wall, the back of his head clearly showing. Something off, something wrong…

Yes. The sniper had pulled the trigger; a thousand details connected to four massive words.

A smile lit up Sherlock's face and he walked forward, his head high and his fingertips touching in long and pointed triangle. "You're not him. You're not Moriarty."

There was a pause before Moriarty dipped his head and started to laugh. "You're getting better," he said, turning round. "Good, Sherlock, good. Now, can you tell me who I really am?" A glimmer appeared on Moriarty's face, vaguely gold and shimmering; underneath something was changing, the features shifting, the bone structure twisting and warping. The shimmer spread, growing – Moriarty grew taller, slimmer, his hair lengthening, his cheekbones rising and sharpening. Gun. Behind the desk. A grab and a twitch, a bullet. Sherlock darted to the side, laid his hands on the sleek black weapon, twisted round and felt the trigger.

Time moved slowly, swimming through tar. The man staring down the barrel of the gun wasn't Moriarty anymore. No. This was something different; a taller man, with milky skin tinged with blue and swept back raven hair. He was dressed in leather, three different colours; gold for riches, black for death, and green for envy. A rigid coat brushed his ankles, and a gold buckle, gleaming dully in the light, went from the tip of one shoulder to the opposite hip. He looked at the gun and shook his head, a wry smile dancing on his lips. "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

No time for a witty comeback – just the flash and smart of the gun. The bullet went through the leather like a knife through butter, straight to the left ventricle of the heart. Shock ran across the man's face, his dark eyes widening, his grasping fingers slowly reaching for the hole in his armour.

"You missed."

The voice came from behind him, and Sherlock barely had enough time to turn around before the gun was plucked from his hand and thrown into the kitchen sink. It was him, the man, smiling. Sherlock whipped round; the man he had shot was gone, vanished, not even a splatter of blood on the floor. No. What? Madness, stupidity. Was he going mad?

His voice came out as a quavering note...as a plea. "What?"


	3. Chapter 3

The man – the impossible man - smiled and sat down in Sherlock's chair again, smoothing his leather suit down the same way Moriarty did – no, he did. An aura of confidence surrounded him, and he didn't seem afraid, despite the gun a few feet away and the harpoon propped up against the wall. Whoever he was, he knew. He knew that Sherlock would obey the unspoken order and sit down in John's chair. He knew that Sherlock would rather kill himself than kill the unknown man. Whoever he was, he was right. Sherlock slowly, gingerly, sat down, crossing his legs with his hands folded on his lap.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Loki-"

"Norse God of Mischief," Sherlock finished, nodding, as though it were obvious. No shock, no surprise. No vulnerability. He had to act like this was the most natural thing in the world – like he expected to find a Norse God sipping his tea when he came home from one of his regular dances with the Dragon. Wait. Sherlock glanced up. "I'm hallucinating. I'm still in the office. The drugs…"

Loki shook his head and reached for the tea-cup, bringing it to his parted lips as he spoke. "I'm afraid not. I am here, as real as the sun and the stars. Tell me, what gave it away?"  
>"Your head. A bullet in the brain would have left a scar after two years, and even if the bullet was fake, even if the gun never even went off, the fall to the concrete would have split your skull – I would have seen the fracture mark. Also, Mrs Hudson didn't recognise you. Who did you shift into?"<p>

"My brother, in some civilian clothes. He's large enough to be intimidating. I lack a certain…" he paused and swept a hand over his scrawny body, "brute strength, you might say."

"For a Norse God you have a remarkably English accent."

Loki's mocking smile fell from his face. "Don't toy with me, Sherlock. You've seen my intellect, and my powers rival that of my brother's – exceed them in fact. Of all the people in the world, you are the most like a God, but do not think for one second that you can fight one." The smile returned. "Know when you are beaten."

Sherlock didn't reply. Instead, he looked. Sunken eyes; sleepless nights. Nervous, anxious about something…his brother, Thor, Odin's son, the God of Thunder. Jealousy hidden in those shifty eyes. Adopted. Liar, obviously. Powerful, yes, but scared too. A child. Petty. Smarty, but impulsive. Angry too, always, always angry. And in his eyes, a quiet yearning – this was a recruitment mission. Sherlock glanced at his hand and saw sparks fly between those fretting fingers. Fire. Rage. Passion. Love? No, not love, something more dangerous, something worse. What was it? Blink once, blink twice, clean the slate. "Why Moriarty?" Sherlock asked, furrowing his brow, "Why not come to me directly?"

Loki shrugged and finished his tea, sitting it back down on the table. "It's fun, Sherlock – playing with you, watching you dance and scramble at the straws. I do like to keep you guessing, but two months without some bait? Well, that's just sadistic."

"But why not invent a new villain? Moriarty is old-hat, worn-out, finished. He died on that rooftop; his story was finished when he turned the gun on himself. You could have chosen anyone, any man walking by in the street and modelled yourself into a monster with his skin."

"Goodness, Sherlock, what do you take me for? I don't throw away my characters that quickly."

"C-characters?"

Loki suddenly titled his head, a smile ghosting on his face and his brow creased. "Oh, Sherlock," he said, leaning forward. "Surely you've realised by now?" Pause. "No? Huh. You're slower than I thought." Loki laughed and pressed his fingers together. "There never was a Richard Brook. There never was a Moriarty. There was only…me. Always me."

"What?" Moriarty, his life for the past four years – a God? No, not a God, a monster, an imposter. No. It wasn't right. No. Sherlock blinked. He heard wrong. He must have.

Loki grinned, a wide smile spreading over his pallid face. "I am Moriarty. I always have been. 30 years growing as him, flitting between this world and my own, simply to toy with you. I can't murder in Asgard, Sherlock – I would destroyed, vaporised, locked up." His hand moved to his skinny wrist before jerking away. "Ever since my childhood finished and my father made it apparent which was his favourite child, I've been coming here to vent some of my frustration. Carl Powers was the first – that was after an argument with my brother that left me screaming. His tears were always more valid than mine you see. No cared much for the adopted prince, not even my mother. So, I came through the portal and ended up here, on this frighteningly boring world. I wandered for a little, then found a boy sitting on a swing. I stole his image. I was still a teenager, Sherlock, and hormones mixed with anger tore me apart. I needed to kill. So, I did.

"Carl Powers was the first, but certainly not the last. I always took that little boy's image, aging him when necessary. James Moriarty grew up with me, killing and plotting and laughing. My anger died down after a while – a few years where Moriarty can never be found. But then, my father dropped the bombshell of my dubious origin, called me a monster and proved to me that love is as fake and plastic and broken as hate. That's when I really got started, and that's where you came in. Murder is fun, Sherlock, so, so fun, especially when you are chasing me. The added risk, the realisation that there was someone else here that almost understood what it was like to grow up surrounded by idiots and liars and petty fools."

Sherlock felt a growl rumble in his throat. "I am nothing like you," he said.

"No; you're boring, you're on the side of the angels. But we are similar, don't you think? We're both arrogant" - Loki suddenly shimmered, and there, sitting in the chair, was Anderson, arms folded across his chest – "rude" – shimmer, Molly, tears pricking her eyes – "obsessed" – shimmer, Moriarty, grinning – "jealous" – Mary, a ring gleaming on her finger – "ruined by older, overbearing brothers" – shimmer, Mycroft, leering – "and we both keep pets" – shimmer, and John was perched on the chair, still holding his cane. His hand shook, and stuck in those gleaming eyes was yearning for another adventure, another chase. It was John, the first time they had ever met.

"John is not my pet."

"Oh no, of course not. He's your unrequited love, isn't he? The one that got away."

"I do not love John Watson."

Loki turned back into his self and smiled smugly. "Perhaps not sexually – oh, don't look so alarmed, it's only a word – but romantically, platonically. You want to take him out to dinner and hug him, hold him, touch him, run those slender fingers down the ridges of his knitted jumpers-"

"What do you want?"

The smile fell of Loki's face and he stood up. "I, unfortunately, need your help."

"So I was right," Sherlock said, a smirk twitching at the side of his mouth, "this is a recruitment mission. But what would you need me for? You've proven yourself to be…resourceful. What can't you get with trickery and illusion?"

Loki's lip curled upwards and he started pacing again, hands behind his back, head held high. "This visit wasn't easy, Sherlock. My life these past few months has been hectic; I was arrested, put in prison and was broken out by my brother. I saved my world, saved all worlds, tricked Thor into thinking I was dead, and took the throne over from my father. I have power now, power over Asgard. But I want more. I have always wanted more. Deep in the basements of your security services, there is an artefact from my brother's fight with Malakeith – you remember that, don't you?"

Oh, yes, he remembered it. He was away at the time, trekking through the heat-baked planes of the Australian desert, but he remembered it from newspapers, just as he remembered New York a year before. A ship from another world; a monstrous hero in a blazing red cape. It hadn't interested him much.

"The artefact," Loki continued, "would be of great use to me. I need you to help me get it."

"No."

"No?" Loki paused, his hand on the ebony edge of the skull. "But you haven't even heard the conditions yet."

"The answer is no." Sherlock stood up and marched to the door, opening it and looking pointedly at Loki. "I suggest you leave."

"Help me, Sherlock. Help me and I swear I will leave Earth alone – I will leave this puny little planet and never return. Moriarty will be gone for good; everyone you've ever loved will be safe."

"And what about the other worlds? The other places you will destroy?"

A curt and cutting laugh. "What do you care about them? You've never been there. You've never met the cretins that live there. Before I showed myself you never even knew there such a thing existed. Besides, Sherlock, if you help me, I can help you in return."

Sherlock frowned and let his hand droop off the door handle. "How could you help me?"

"I can protect John and keep him safe forever. I can give you drugs that make your heart pound and your mind taper to a point, without the annoying side-effects of withdrawl. I can get rid of your brother for you….get rid of Anderson, and Greg, and Molly, anyone you want. I can give you a planet, Sherlock. In time, I can give you anything you desire." No reply, just harsh and unforgiving silence. "Or," Loki said, voice darkening, "I can destroy everything. This world and the next, gone in a puff of smoke. I will get my hands on the device eventually, and when I do, the portal will be flooded with gamma rays and magic. I won't kill you, of course – just leave you fester on Midgard alone. It's your choice, Sherlock. I can give you everything, or I can leave you with nothing."

"Normally one uses the carrot or the stick, not both."

"Don't avoid the question, Sherlock," Loki snarled, snapping his fingers again to produce a flickering green flame that wavered in the air. "I will burn you, literally, if you don't give me an answer right now. And don't just parrot what you've already said. Think."

Yes. The word, unbidden, sprung into Sherlock's mind. It was forbidden and dangerous, a caramel word, a marshmallow word, sweet and delicate and dreadful. Think about it practically – save Molly. Save John. Save everyone, and gain power. A new chance to use his wit, a new way to test his intellect. A world at his feet; and wasn't that what he wanted? Not power, no, leave ruling to prats like Mycroft and power-hungry monsters like Loki, but proof, proof that he could topple buildings, sink ships, destroy cultures with his mind. Yes. Wasn't this the perfect opportunity? He could hold Britain in his hand and it would only cost a few measly lives, a day of his time, and a scrap of his honour.

But could he do it? These morals…could he give them up? This new feeling of sympathy had proved surprisingly useful in the last few weeks. He had saved lives, stopped murders, made friendships with these odd and interesting emotions. John's face suddenly swam in front of his eyes, and something twanged in his heart. That knotted brow would shake with fury if he said yes; those calloused hands would close once more around his throat. Could he do it? Risk emotions; risk a friendship?

Sherlock took a deep breath and looked at Loki, eyes hard. The caramel word melted on his tongue: "The answer is no."

For a moment, it seemed as though Loki would snap and set fire to the flat, beat him to a bloody pulp with Thor's meaty fists. But he didn't. The fire licking his fingers went out with a dull hiss, and he straightened his back, his jaw set and his eyes blazing.  
>"Very well," he said, strutting forward. He was slightly taller than the slim detective, but there was no disguising how small he felt inside. "I'll keep in touch, Sherlock. Just don't be surprised when the word starts crumbling around you." With a delicate flick of his wrist, an apple shimmered into existence, the pregnant swell of the blood-red flesh rocking in Loki's palm. "I shall see you again, I promise you." Pressing the apple into Sherlock's hand, he shimmered into his brother and slowly walked out of the room, closing the door gently behind him and leaving Sherlock to stare at the fruit, at the jagged letters facing him; "I O U."<p>

A smile crept over Sherlock's face. The threads were connected; the game was afoot. A laugh bubbled in his throat and, grinning, he threw the apple and its bone-white message into the air. It rolled under the desk, under those pointed devil horns.

"Did you miss me?"

Not anymore.


End file.
